Defenseless
by whitequeen73
Summary: Spock/Uhura oneshot. Just an impression, no specific event or time, but past movie. The coldness that trapped Nyota has become a curse for her. Control or emptiness?


Hi everyone, I'm back with this drabble that just refused to leave me alone. :) I wrote it halfway on the train and finished in the bathtub like Freddie Mercury wrote Crazy Little Thing Called Love.  
It's kinda violent, I know, and also quite OOC - or who knows. I left out Uhura's motherly instincts on Spock which I love btw, but they didn't fit in here. Maybe next time ;)

There's something I owe you: no matter what things look like at the moment, I AM going to finish Eyes Open!! Just my laptop is officially dead, and that kinda cut my artist's wings... :-S

Until then, I hope you enjoy this one. Don't own etc.

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**Defenseless  
**

It's only a matter of seconds that rage floods her whole body, rushing to her brain, making her see red and setting her cheeks on fire. It is sending an electric impulse through her arm, making it rise and sending her palm to snap loudly on the infuriatingly blank marble face. He only flinches for a second, then continues to stare at her, into her. Oh how she would do anything just to wipe that look off his face, to crack the ice that is covering his features, making him an impeccable and invincible statue. Maybe she wouldn't even care if the reaction drawn from him was similar to what Kirk got for provoking him to the edge – she almost craved for his hands closing around her throat in a death grip, his sparkling eyes darting into her own, sweat weeping off his upper lip… At least an emotion would be expressed in the most rudimentary human way.

She simply couldn't take it anymore, the oh-so-carefully measured, cool manner in any situation they have gotten into – no exceptions.

The first times were different. He was able to set her on fire with a single glance, a single brush of his long fingers on her skin; like back then, in the communication lab… She froze, literally, unable to move or even breath, frightened to death to break the spell; she just sat there, her back (forced straight like in some kind of a catatonic fit) to him, eyes blind to the flashing lights of the control panels, just panting below his fingertips moving down her bare upper arms excruciatingly slow, leaving tell-tale goosebumps on their path. She felt she would explode; she felt her knees tremble and was grateful for not standing, risking them to embarrassingly give way under her.

But that was then: he was still the unbelievable, the forbidden fruit, when she couldn't help but treasure every moment with him, still not being sure if it was just her imagination playing games on her. Now her passionate personality took the better of her and said it's enough of feeling like the naïve schoolgirl she was when their fates crossed. She has grown into a woman now, needing to be needed, to be admired, loved, and most of all, to be shown all these feelings from time to time. She thought she could handle it. Grow accustomed to his unique ways of expressing affection. But lately she has seriously started to doubt there was anything behind the shield at all.

And she is not afraid to throw, to shout them at him now. She uses almost the same words Kirk did: "How is it, not to feel…?" "…probably means nothing to you!". She is verbalizing her darkest fear and she feels an odd satisfaction that at the same time, she can stab him right into the heart with them – if he has one at all.

In her helpless rage, she strides even closer to him, pushing him backwards with hard pokes – small fists making loud thumps on the immaculate blue uniform-covered chest. _Such a barbaric, primitive human attempt to provoke an emotional response by physical stimuli _– a voice whispers tauntingly inside her head. Nonsense… he is not able to transmit thoughts except for that one mind-meld. It must be her conscience talking… the thought angers her to insanity and she cries, she yells at him, punches and scratches him, ready to fight to death just to reveal the human in him he managed to suppress so successfully.

He doesn't fight back; why isn't he fighting back?! He should catch her wrists using his extraordinary reflexes, squeeze them together until she collapses from pain – instead his movements are slow, measured and _logical_. He captures one fighting hand first, then the other, pushing them against his chest, keeping them there with ease, using only his left. His other hand starts wandering towards her tear-stained, flushed cheeks, ignoring her violent attempts to move her head out of his fingers' way. He only touches her with gentle fingertips, like he always does, instead of his palm: with care, respect, eyes filled with tenderness.

Panic starts replacing madness inside her at this level of control. Something terrible must be about to come, some terrible punishment, a _logical_ revenge for her cruelty.

The panic reaches its apex when his intentions become clear to her. She starts thrashing like a captured bird, but his superhuman strength keeps his grip impossible to escape. His caressing fingers finally find their right spots on her left cheek, and she is immediately engulfed by a blinding light, compressing her chest and forcing all the air from her lungs.

She can see nothing but flashes, none of the images staying by long enough to grasp. It's not them that make her want to scream her soul out and cry until she has any tears left. It's the force of the foreign emotions, so incredibly strong she feels she physically can't take them any moment longer. Love, care, worry, need, bonding, fear she has ever experienced in her life are just ridiculous shadows of what she is going through now. And suddenly and painfully it becomes clear to her how wrong she was in everything and why is it vital for him to keep his emotions under control. Her heart is pounding so hard against her ribs that it hurts and she knows there's only death left for her to bring relief and save her from this hell that she is sinking into.

When she surfaces, gasping for air, she realizes the soft lips on her temple, and that hers isn't the only ragged breathing to be heard. Through lowered lashes, her eyes take in the rapidly rising and falling chest right in front of her and she, all defenses down, lets her forehead drop onto his always straight shoulder.


End file.
